He lay in a solitary spot, on the bank of a small
lake, which the severe frost of December had covered with a sheet of ice.
Beneath this, it seemed to have been the intention of the murderer to
conceal his victim in a chill and watery grave, the ice being deeply
hacked, perhaps with the weapon that had slain him, though its solidity
was too stubborn for the patience of a man with blood upon his hand. The
corpse therefore reclined on the earth, but was separated from the road
by a thick growth of dwarf pines. There had been a slight fall of snow
during the night, and as if nature were shocked at the deed, and strove
to hide it with her frozen tears, a little drifted heap had partly buried
the body, and lay deepest over the pale dead face. An early traveller,
whose dog had led him to the spot, ventured to uncover the features, but
was affrighted by their expression. A look of evil and scornful triumph
had hardened on them, and made death so life-like and so terrible, that
the beholder at once took flight, as swiftly as if the stiffened corpse
would rise up and follow.
I read on, and identified the body as that of a young man, a stranger in
the country, but resident during several preceding months in the town
which lay at our feet.
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